


We Protect Those Who Cannot Protect Themselves

by dylanssourwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Stiles, M/M, President's Son Stiles, Secret Service Agent Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2007216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylanssourwolf/pseuds/dylanssourwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds out the hard way that he's the son of the President of the United States: a terrorist threatening to kill him. In order to ensure his safety, he's issued a bodyguard, Derek Hale of the Secret Service, who just happens to be tall, dark, and entirely too fucking handsome. But Derek's so professional...Stiles just hopes Derek keeps him alive long enough for them to have sex. Right after Stiles gets Derek to like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Because of those Dylan gifs at Giffoni with the five hundred billion security guards like what.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: dylanssourwolf.tumblr.com

         

 

_It’s such a nice day out. The sky is clear, the birds are singing_ _…I_ _’m so glad I took this study break._ Stiles sighs. It has been another muggy summer in Washington D.C., but luckily, the weather had just started to cool down just in time for the new school year. Stiles continues to walk down the street in search of a coffee shop. It was unusual for him to be far away from campus, as he usually just pushed up his glasses and headed back to his apartment after class, but if he was going to finish the research paper on how the bible influenced the writings of Tolkien, Rowling and C.S. Lewis, he was going to need the caffeine.  
                _If I didn’t have that paper to finish, I’d stay out all day. This is my favorite time of year._ His gaze travels to the trees lining the avenue, shades of yellow and orange littering the grass and sidewalk. A breeze blows and ruffles his bangs. His hands reach up to make sure his beanie is snug on his head. Up ahead, a crowd has formed in front of a shop, watching a news report on the televisions stacked in the window.  
                “ _…no official word yet from the White House, but_ _…_ _”_  
                “Mommy, is the president in trouble?” A little girl tugs at the hem of her mother’s shirt.  
                “Shhh!” The mother pulls her daughter close to her side.  
                _The president?_ Stiles joins the crowd and listens to the anchor on the screen.  
                _“_ _…surprised to learn that President Stilinski, the youngest president to date, has a child._ _”_  
                President Stilinski is a father! But _…he_ _’s single._  
                _“For security reasons, the child_ _’s identity is being withheld.”_  
                The little girl fidgets. “I can’t see!”  
                “Take my place.” Stiles smiles and steps aside. The little girl’s pigtails bounce as she skips over to Stiles.  
                “Thank you so much, young man,” her mother replies. “Now, Paige, what do we say?”  
                “Thanks for moving out of the way!” She pushes to stand in Stiles’s space and presses her face to the shop window.  
                “Uh…you’re welcome, I think.” __  
Stiles started back down the street. “I have to finish my paper and do laundry and maybe I’ll actually do the dishes…” A tap on the shoulder brings him out of his thoughts. “Hmm?”  
                “Excuse me…could I ask you for some directions? I’m a bit lost.” A man donned in a business suit offers a smile. A badge pinned on his lapel suggests he’s government, which isn’t surprising. Stiles does, after all, go to college in D.C..  
                “Directions? Sure. I think I have a pen, I’ll write them down for you if you have some paper…” Stiles fidgets around in his pockets for the ballpoint pen he swears he slipped into his khakis.  
                “Good. Looks like I’ve got the right person.” Stiles’s hand reaches to push up his glasses and falls to reveal a gun pointing at his nose. The man’s brown eyes are dark and void of life. They look tired, like many a sleepless nights had finally taken their toll.  
                _Shit, shit. Shit. Run, Stiles, get the fuck outta there, go!_  
                He couldn’t move. His mind told him to run while he still could, but his legs wouldn’t budge. His eyes shift down to the barrel of the gun. He knows he has to do something, but his body is paralyzed. His mind is racing, panicking, trying to decipher the quickest ways to run and weave through the city in order to get back to his apartment.  
                Suddenly, another stranger comes up and smiles. He’s got tousled brown hair and dazzling blue eyes. His smile is brilliantly white and inviting as he smirks at Stiles. “Hey, Stiles, how’s it going? Long time, no see!”  
                The government guy looks to the stranger just as confused as Stiles does. “Who—” He gets no words out as the stranger grabs the gun and jerks it away from Stiles’s face. His other muscled arm hooks the guy square in the jaw. Stiles snaps out of it and staggers back in the midst of the official rumpling to the ground. The stranger turns to Stiles and nods. “Quite a nice day, isn’t it? Perhaps we should find a sandy beach and order drinks with little umbrellas.”  
                Stiles feels his eye twitch. “Little umbrellas? How…How do you know my name? Who the fuck _are_ you and who the hell is _that_ guy? How did—” Stiles feels his breathing start shorten and the world start to travel in slow motion. _No, not a panic attack._ He stops to take deep breaths. The edges of his vision are fading to black as his hand comes up to clutch at his chest.  
                The stranger reaches down and grabs both the official’s hands with one of his own. “Let…go!” The official struggles with all his might, but the man’s grip doesn’t budge. “Just think of me as a good Samaritan.”  
                Stiles pants and scrunches his eyes shut. “I was just… and…he was really going…to shoot me.”  
                “Not anymore.” The good Samaritan’s voice was inviting. He wrenches the official’s arms behind his back. “Having a good time? Why don’t we go for a walk?”  
                The official launches himself forward and the gun goes flying into the air. The Samaritan catches it easily. “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I should get going. Rain check on the beach.” He starts dashing after the official.  
                “Wait! How do you know my…” Stiles keels over to try and catch his breath.  
                “One thing, though. You have to get out of here. There might be more of them.” The man winks and takes off full speed down the alley after the guy in the suit, tucking the gun into his back pocket.  
                _What does he mean there might be more of them?_  
                Stiles starts taking deep breaths, just as he’d done after his mother died to calm himself after a panic attack started coming on. His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. Just before they fall, Stiles catches them with a shaky finger. Wow, the world looks like a great abstract painting when you’re having a panic attack. __  
“Hey you! Over here!” Another man stands a few yards away, waving his arms. “Yeah, you! Hurry up!” _Well, since he hasn’t pulled a gun on me yet_ _…I guess we_ _’re on the same side._ Stiles begins to walk towards him and eventually breaks out into a run.  
                Stiles chases him down an alley, struggling to keep up. His suit jacket flutters behind him and the echo of his dress shoes on the pavement is Stiles’s only reassurance that he’s actually still there and hasn’t vanished. “Can…we…slow down..a little?”  
                “Save your breath and keep moving!”  
                Sunlight in the alley vanishes as a dark cloud blocks out the light. _So much for my perfect sunny day._ The wind picks up, blowing trash and dirt all around the alley. The sky roars with the thunder of a brewing storm. Stiles feels his jacket fluttering behind him. His chest aches and his lungs burn and his vision’s starting to shit out on him.  
                “Almost there!” The man shouts behind him. Stiles’s chest is heaving but the threat of other attackers pushes him forward.  
                The alley opens up into a wide, empty street. The man stops and looks up to the sky, his hair blowing wildly in the wind. “We’ve arrived! Get in!”  
                Stiles’s honey brown eyes follow the man’s green gaze behind his thick frames. _It’s not a storm. It’s a fucking helicopter._  
                The helicopter descends into the street and the door slides open, a built man holding his hand out. “Come on!” He looks about Stiles’s age, around 22, but something about him makes Stiles wary.  
                “Who are you? How do I know I can trust you?” Stiles is yelling over the roar of the rotors and his arm instinctively comes up to shield his eyes from the leaves and dust blowing around.  
                “It doesn’t matter right now. Just get in!”  
                “You bet your little ass it matters! I almost got fucking murdered back there! No fucking _way_ I’m getting in!”  
                The man Stiles ran down the alley after shoves him from behind and knocks him into the man in the helicopter. The guy in the copter grabs Stiles’s arm and yells toward the pilot, “I’ve got him, let’s go!”  
                The door begins to shut and the man in the street jumps into the helicopter after Stiles. “Good timing.”  
                _Did they fucking kidnap me?_  
                Stiles squirms. “Get the hell off me!” He struggles out of the man’s grip and presses his hands against the door but realizes it’s too late. They were already passing over the buildings.  
                “Just cool it and take a fucking seat, Stiles. Christ.”  
                _He knows my name too? Why does everyone know my name today?_  
                He puts a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, to which Stiles throws off, head whipping around to glare at the guy’s clenched jaw. “Don’t fucking touch me.” He grabs Stiles again, harder.  
                “Didn’t you hear me, you little shit? We’re on the same fucking side, so quit making things so difficult!”  
                Stiles punches the man square in the side of the jaw. “Son of a bitch!” Both of them fall as the man wraps one strong arm around Stiles’s waist and pulls him down into the seat. The man’s angry chiseled face is pressed against Stiles’s, screwing up the thick glasses that were neatly perched on the bridge of his nose. He was breathing heavy and he feels the beanie slide off of his head. Stiles glances over to see a red bruise on the man’s cheek, allowing the creeping of guilt to seep into his chest.  
                He tries to apologize while staggering off of the man. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”  
                He cuts him off. “Shut up! You’re such a pain in the ass.” He holds his cheeks to make sure nothing’s broken.  
                Stiles rolls his eyes and fits the beanie back onto his bedhead. Maybe he doesn’t feel so bad anymore. He gazes out the window as they ride in silence, hovering above the D.C. metro area. His heart clenches in jealously and fear as the people down there enjoy their normal lives. He suddenly sees the gun in the stranger’s hand flash in his mind. _He was going to kill me. Someone I’d never met before wanted to kill me._  
                The other man grasps Stiles’s hand and smiles. “Everything’s going to be fine, Stiles. Please don’t be afraid.”  
                Stiles stares at the man’s adorable dimples and he feels slightly better at the man’s comfort. His bright green eyes give him a youthful appearance.  He’s lean, with an athletic build underneath the pressed suit he’s wearing. _He looks really familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him._ “Can you tell me where we’re going? Please just give me straight answer.”  
                “Actually,” he smiles, “we’re almost there.”  
                Stiles glances out the window and squints, mouth falling open in shock. _But that’s impossible_ _…_ The helicopter began its descent.  
                “You’d better be on your best behavior,” said the douche, still holding his cheek.  
                The helicopter lands and the doors open, right in front of the White House. _Why in fuck would they kidnap me and bring me to the White House?_  
               Stiles is led through a back entrance to an empty room by the two men on the helicopter before they leave Stiles to himself. After a few moments, two different men enter the room. One is tall and serious and _very fucking attractive_. His leather jacket sits atop his broad shoulders, the fabric seeming to strain and pull over his muscled arms. His hair is black and his eyes are a vibrant green, contrasting to the scruff accumulated on his chin that he didn’t bother to shave. His brow looms over his eyes, dark and brooding. _Hello, handsome._ The other agent Stiles immediately recognizes.  
                “Scott! What are you doing here?”  
                Scott smiles. “Hey, Stiles. It’s been a while.”  
                Stiles glances around. “I can’t figure out what’s going on, Scott. Did they bring you here too?”  
                “Just be patient.”  
                Stiles scrunches his face. _What the hell?_  
                The three wait in silence until an attendant enters and nods at the tall man.  
                “I’ll take him from here, Agent McCall.”  
                “Yes, sir.” Scott nods.  
                “Wait…Agent McCall? That’s your _father_ …Scott, does he mean _you_?”  
                Scott turns. “Don’t you _realize_ what’s going on?” His face is stern and serious.  
                Stiles shakes his head. “No! No one’s telling me anything!”  
                “Come with me, please,” the other agent commands.  
                Scott nudges Stiles toward the other agent. “You’re about to have the most important conversation of your life.”  
                Stiles follows the tall man through the doorway and is taken into the Oval Office. _Wait_ _…that_ _’s the_ _…_  
                “Thank you, Derek.”  
                “It’s no problem, Mr. President.”  
                Stiles lets his jaw fall open. “Mr. _President_?”

President Stilinski shakes Stiles’s hand. “I’ve been waiting so long for this day, Stiles. I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet you.” He pulls Stiles into a hug. Once he lets go, Stiles takes note that the president is crying. “I’m so sorry to bring you here forcibly. I had no choice.”  
                Stiles shakes his head. “Mr. President, I…I’m so confused.”  
                The president starts pacing around his office. “For years I’ve dedicated myself to becoming president. But each day I feel this void in my heart for the long lost son I’ve never met.”  
                “ _Son_? Who? _Me_?” Stiles thinks back to the news report earlier. _He has to have the wrong Stilinski._ “I know Stilinski is a _very common name_ , Mr. President, sir, but there has to be a mistake. My father passed away when I was a baby.”  
                “Is that what Claudia told you? Well…I understand her reasons.”  
                “Wait, you knew my _mother_?”  
                “Of course I knew her. A long time ago, I loved your mother very much.” The president sits behind his immense desk and folds his hands atop the mahogany. Stiles takes the nearest chair. “We met in college. She was so independent and strong. We were still students when you were conceived.” Stiles sees the sad, faraway look in his pale blue eyes. “We wanted to marry, but it was…impossible.” He sighs and gives Stiles a strained smile. “How is she these days?”  
               Stiles bites his lip. “Mr. President, sir…she died when I was ten. Frontotemporal dementia.” Stiles can tell the president is trying hard to keep it together. “I’ve been staying with my grandparents.”  
                “So that’s why I haven’t been able to…” He pauses, then collects himself. “My parents were against the marriage because she didn’t have any political connections. That’s when she disappeared, still pregnant with you. After that, I became…obsessed with my career.”  
                “Is that why you never married?”  
                The president nods. “Yes. I just…didn’t have any room left in my heart. But now—” he smiles and takes a breath “—looking at you, I deeply regret waiting for so long.”  
                _Mother never would say how father died._  
                “Anyway,” the president folds his hands on his desk. “I imagine you have so many questions.”  
                Stiles leans forward and scratches at the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I don’t even know where to start.”  
                “First, I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He sighs and gives Stiles a serious look. “Earlier today we received a letter from a terrorist group.  They’ve discovered your identity as well and now…they’re after your life.”  
                Stiles’s face goes pale. “You mean that man earlier, with the gun…they sent him for _me_?”  
                “I’m afraid so. As soon as I read the letter, I informed the Secret Service.”  
                “The guys in the helicopter were Secret Service?”  
                The president nods. “Correct, and so is Derek here.” President Stilinski points to tall, dark, and handsome. “They’re our very best.”  
                Derek bows slightly in response. “Thank you, sir.” __  
And Scott too?  
                “These agents are going to protect you until the current situation is under control.”  
                “But…Mr. President…”  
                The president looks at Stiles with gentle eyes. “Please, just call me dad.” He looks Stiles over.  
                “Dad…”  
                The president shakes his head. “We’ll have more time to talk later. For now, please meet the team.” He stands and gives Stiles another hug before nodding at Derek.  
                Derek broods. “Follow me.”  
                “You’ll be safe now, Stiles,” the president says, “I promise.”  
               Stiles returns to the previous room where the agents from the helicopter and Scott were waiting. The one Stiles accidentally punched eyes him suspiciously while the other smiles warmly. “Hmm…nice to see you’ve actually calmed down.”  
                Scott smiles a little. “Jackson was just telling me about your boxing skills.”  
                Jackson grits his teeth. “Hmph. He fights dirty.”  
                The other agent smiles. “Stiles, I know that this is a lot to take in, but...welcome home.”  
                _He looks so familiar_ _…wait_ _…_ “This is going to sound crazy, but considering what else happened today, I think I recognize you.”  
                “Me?” He looks at Stiles stunned.  
                “You were the deputy back in my hometown, weren’t you? Jordan Parrish? From Beacon Hills?”  
                “Well…”  
                “Excellent eye, Mr. Stilinski. I’m impressed.” Derek sounds more impressed than he looks.  
                “So, it’s true?”  
                Parrish bites his lip. “I dunno…”  
                Scott rolls his eyes. “There goes Parrish, doing his mysterious thing again.”  
                Everyone goes quiet, as if waiting for someone. Stiles shuts his eyes and tries to collect his thoughts. _These guys are supposed to protect me because I’m_ actually _the president’s son and now my life is in danger._  
                When Stiles opens his eyes, there’s a piece of caramel candy in front of him. He’d loved caramel candy as a child. It only makes sense that Scott is on the other end. “You still like this stuff?”  
                Stiles smiles. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of these.”  
                Scott shrugs nonchalantly. “You want it or not?”  
                Stiles takes the candy and smiles. “Thanks, dude.”  
                Scott shrugs in response.  
                “Well, it looks like Allison is late, so we might as well begin.” Derek stalks over from the corner of the room and stands beside the others. “I’m Special Agent Derek Hale, and as of now, your safety is my top priority.”  
                Stiles finds himself staring at Derek’s lips. They’re perfect and pink and Stiles bets they’d look really good wrapped around his—  
                “Mr. Stilinski.” Derek’s stern voice snaps Stiles right out of that fantasy. He’s got a mouth on him, too. Feisty. Stiles tries not to look too disappointed that Derek just ruined one of the best daydreams he’s had in a long time.  
               Derek glares at Stiles before turning to Jackson. “Agent Whittemore?”  
                “Yes, sir.” Jackson rubs his cheek and stares daggers at Stiles. “I’m Special Agent Jackson Whittemore. I hope you don’t make this too difficult.”  
                “Well, you could be a little nicer,” Stiles shoots back.  
                Jackson grimaces. “Nice? Just do what I tell you and I’ll keep you out of trouble, you little bastard.”  
                “Um, that’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about, dickhead.”  
                “Calm down, Jackson.” Jackson feels his cheek again and glowers at Parrish. “I’m Special Agent Jordan Parrish. It’s true that I used to be a small town deputy, but now it’s my job to look after you.”  
                Stiles thinks of how welcoming he had been. The memory calms him a little.  
                Derek nods to Scott. “Agent McCall?”  
                “Yes, sir.” Scott smiles at Stiles. “Hey dude, Scott here. You know the rest.”  
                Stiles crosses his arms. “Like hell I do! One minute you’re my best friend playing lacrosse at our university, and the next you’re a special agent in the secret fucking service?! What the fuck?”  
                “Well, a lot’s changed, I guess. Anyway, it’s like the old times, right? I always had to look after you.”  
                _Same old Scott._  
                The heavy wooden door creaks open and someone else enters the room.  
                “I’m glad you made it,” Derek says toward the other man.  
                “Special Agent Isaac Lahey, reporting for duty.” Isaac eyes Stiles. “Say, funny running into you again.” Stiles realizes that Isaac is the man that saved him on the street. His blue eyes dance with amusement. “I only got a quick look at you earlier, but your file photo does you no justice. You’re much hotter in person.”  
                Stiles feels his face flush but ignores it. He reaches up to fiddle with his beanie and push his glasses up.  
                Jackson’s hand falls on Isaac’s shoulder. “Tone it down, Isaac. We’re supposed to look _after_ him…not _at_ him.”  
                Isaac shrugs. “Just being honest.”  
                “Keep it professional, agents,” Derek announces to the room, green eyes piercing Isaac. “Now, Mr. Stilinski, although we’re all charged with keeping you safe, only one of us will be guarding you closely day and night. Please take a moment to choose one of us as your main protector until this whole incident blows over.”  
                Stiles takes a sweeping look around the room. _Derek takes his job super fucking seriously. Not to mention he looks like a goddamn pornstar._  
             “Derek. You seem to take your job ridiculously freakishly seriously.”  
                Derek nods. “It’s an honor to serve, Mr. Stilinski.”  
                Jackson looks at Derek. “It looks like you’re going to be really busy now, sir.”  
                All eyes are on Stiles. “Be sure to take good care of our captain, Stiles,” Scott intervenes.  
                “He’s the heart of our department,” chimes Parrish. Scott nods in agreement.  
                Stiles swallows thickly. “I’ll…I’ll do what I can.”  
                Isaac punches Derek lightly in the shoulder. “Try not to fall for him, sir. He looks like a total heartbreaker to me.” Isaac winks at Derek and offers a sexy smirk, leaning closer to Derek to whisper, “I bet he’d pitch for you.” Derek’s head whips in Isaac’s direction, cheeks dusted a rosy pink.  
                “T-There are no grounds for concern. My relationship with Mr. Stilinski will be strictly professional.” Stiles tries not to look too disappointed. _So matter of fact._  
                Jackson takes the opportunity to interrupt. “Sir, if you don’t mind, there is something I’d like to ask you.”  
                “Yes, Agent Whittemore?”  
                Jackson looks slightly embarrassed. “I don’t quite know how to say this, but…”  
                Just then, a politician enters the room and looks slightly baffled by all of the presence. “Excuse me, I have an appointment with the president.”  
                Derek smiles slightly. “Of course. He’ll send out an attendant as soon as he’s ready.”  
                The politician nods and tries to leave the room while Derek seems to size it up. “Agents, let’s give the gentleman some space. Have a nice day, sir.”  
                Everyone follows Derek out of the room and into the hallway. “Agent Whittemore, you were saying…"  
                “Yes, well…it’s not that I’m _doubting_ your abilities, sir, but…do you feel _comfortable_ taking on so much by yourself?”  
                Derek looks genuinely puzzled. “I don’t quite follow.”  
                Scott nods and crosses his arms. “Actually, I’m with Jackson on this. It’s been a few years since you last pulled 24-hour bodyguard duty, sir.”  
                “And you know better than anyone how demanding this assignment is, both physically and mentally.”  Parrish adjusts his tie, looking just as concerned as Scott and Jackson.  
                Isaac smiles and gestures to his colleagues. “Just so you know, none of us would think any less of you if you wanted some assistance.”  
                “Right,” Jackson confirms. “We’re here to support you.”  
                _I know I’m still shaken from everything that happened today_ _…but am I getting choked up?_ Stiles swallows thickly and feels a single tear slide down his cheek. The comradery and love in the room makes him think of his mother. How she was such a beautiful person, inside and out, and she always supported Stiles. With all the shit that went on, it makes his heart ache.  
                “Mr. Stilinski…” Derek steps forward and all the agents seem to remember Stiles is there.  
                _Fuck everything._ Stiles reaches up and furiously rubs his eyes, knocking his glasses off in the process of flailing. __  
Derek reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly folded handkerchief. “Please, take this.” He hands Stiles the handkerchief.  
                Stiles accepts it and looks away in embarrassment. “Thanks. It’s no big deal. So much shit went down today and I guess it’s finally hitting me.” He bends down to find his glasses.  
                “Mr. Stilinski,” Derek’s gruff voice comforts Stiles a bit. “as your bodyguard, my duties include protecting your heart and health. So please, don’t apologize.”  
                “Thanks, Derek.” He tries to return the handkerchief.  
                “Hold onto it for now. If we’re lucky, you won’t need it again, but it’s always better to be prepared.” He turns to the other agents. “As for the team’s concerns, it’s no secret that our job becomes more difficult as time goes on. I’m a few years older than the rest of you, which means that I have the most experience with these sort of situations.” Derek’s green eyes shift around the room. “Do you recall the time I had to protect that reporter from a similar terrorist threat?”  
                Jackson scoffs. “I can’t believe you got out of the bakery in one piece.”  
                “Don’t trouble yourselves worrying about me.” His gaze lands on Stiles briefly before moving to Jackson. “Agent Whittemore?”  
                “Sir?”  
                “As the next highest ranking agent, you’ll serve as the team leader while I’m away.”  
                “Yes, sir…”  
                Isaac laughs. “Shit…we have to take orders from _Jackson_ now?”  
                Jackson glares. “Shut up, dickwad. Listen.”  
                The agents all went silent and listened to their radios as a message came in. The mood in the room drops as they all depart down the hallway. Derek gives a look to Stiles as the rest of the agents vanish at the end of the halls. “We should proceed with our business as well.”  
                Derek leads Stiles down the hall. “That’s fine. Is everything okay?” Stiles asks as he follows Derek through the twists and turns of the White House. He’s mesmerized by the patterning on the navy blue carpet.  
                “Affirmative. Agent Whittemore and the others are investigating a situation. We’re trained to be focused whenever a call comes in. Don’t be alarmed.”  
                Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Is it classified or something?”  
                Derek stops and turns sharply. Stiles nearly slams right into his chest. “I beg your pardon?”  
                Stiles pushes up his glasses so that he can see Derek’s chiseled face more clearly. “I mean, you don’t seem to want to _tell_ me what the fuck is happening, so…”  
                “No, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s just that—”  
                “I understand if it’s classified.”  
                “It’s not,” Derek snaps. He’s trying very hard to stay calm. “Try to avoid jumping to conclusions.” He scratches at the scruff on his chin as he collects his thoughts. “Another threat has come in.”  
                “Someone else is already after me?” Stiles feels a tightening in his chest as another panic attack seems to be coming on. His heart starts to beat harder at the thought of another attacker lurking in the city.  
                “That’s what the team is currently investigating. I would rather you not worry about it. It’s my responsibility to look after these things, not yours.” Derek adjusts the volume on his radio and lets his gaze linger over Stiles’s gray button down. “In the meantime, I want you to resume your normal activities.”  
                “Normal activities? Some guy I’d never even met tried to fucking shoot me on the street today and you expect me to return to my _normal activities?_ ” Stiles reaches up to tug at his shirt collar and pull the blue beanie off of his tousled hair. _Is it warm in here?_  
                Derek pulls his phone out and begins typing. “That’s what I’m here for. Our itinerary is as follows. I’ll drive you back to your apartment. You’ll stay there for the rest of the day as a precaution. I’ll be in a secure location keeping a record of everyone who comes and goes from your building.  
                “All night long?”  
                “Of course.  And I’ll give you instructions on what to do if you notice anything the slightest bit suspicious.” Derek pauses and looks up from his phone at Stiles through his furrowed brow. “Will you be attending classes tomorrow?”  
                Stiles thinks about it for a moment. “If I’m supposed to back to _normal activities,_ then I have a lecture in the morning and then lacrosse practice.”  
                Derek is unamused with Stiles’s sarcasm. “When you get home, text me your schedule as soon as you can. Here’s my number.” He hands Stiles a business card and enters more information into his phone. “Because you’re at the greatest risk when you’re in public, I’ll be accompanying you to the campus for the time being.”  
                “Won’t that draw a lot of attention, Mr. Subtlety?”  
                “Not at all. I’ll prepare a backstory for you to memorize by tomorrow morning.”  
                Stiles grimaces. “That sounds to me like homework.”  
                Derek’s jade eyes glare at Stiles from the light of his phone. “Perhaps, but it’s necessary in order to protect your identity.”  
                “I was joking, Derek, Jesus. Pull the stick out of your ass and lighten up. For my sake.”  
                “I see.” He finishes typing and then reads over his work before shoving his phone into his jacket pocket. “Do you have any questions before we depart?”  
                Stiles shakes his head. “Let’s go before the day gets away from us.”  
                Derek rolls his eyes and leads Stiles out into the garage.

 

                Stiles guides Derek up to his little one bedroom apartment and opens the door. “Well, here we are. Home sweet home.”  
                Derek offers a disgusted scowl at the state of the living area.  
                “I wasn’t expecting fucking company, okay?” _Especially not such hot company._  
                “I can see.” Derek moves past Stiles to enter the apartment first. Stiles grabs ahold of his leather-clad arm. “Wait.”  
                Derek is instantly alert, moving in front of Stiles to shield him. He draws his gun in two seconds and scans the hallway. “What? What is it? Did you hear something? Is something out of place?”  
                Stiles peeks around Derek’s shoulder. “Jesus, no. Nothing like that.”  
                Derek sneers at Stiles in detest, a look that Stiles was getting used to. “Just…could you take your shoes off, please?” Stiles points at the carpeting in the foyer. “It’s rented and carpet cleaning is too expensive.”  
                Derek surveys the studio apartment and turns back to Stiles. “No. I might step on something and need a tetanus booster.” He treads into the apartment and looks around.  
                “It’s not very big. I’ll give you a tour right here from the front door.” Stiles points to his bed. “That’s my bed.”  
                “I can see that. Why are you pointing it out to me?” Derek scans the kitchen before moving down the hall into the bathroom.  
                Stiles feels his face flush a bright red. “No! I—uh…it also doubles as a sofa, as I don’t have one, which you can probably see.” Derek holds his gun low to his hip and enters the living area again before motioning for Stiles to enter.  
                “It’s safe.” Derek inspects the mess. “Well, safe might be pushing it.” He makes his way over to the windows, his boots clicking on the wooden floor. “We’ll need to keep the curtains closed, even during the daytime.”  
                “Curtains?”  
                Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “How long have you been living here?”  
                Stiles thinks for a moment and counts on his fingers despite him being a physics major. “About a year and a half.”  
                “And you still haven’t gotten around to buying some curtains?”  
                “Sorry, Derek, but getting spied on and murdered wasn’t one of my concerns until today.” He starts sifting through some dirty laundry on the floor next to where Derek picks up a towel halfway underneath Stiles’s bed.  
                “This towel should do,” Derek mutters, unballing it.  
                “No!” Stiles grabs the towel and replaces it with a bed sheet. “Use this.” A faint pink dust spreads across Stiles’s freckled cheeks and he tosses the towel back onto the floor. “That’s a towel that I’m washing when I do laundry tonight…”  
                Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles and uses thumbtacks from the bulletin board to secure the sheet over the windows. Stiles lets his eyes wander over Derek’s back muscles as he reaches high to extend the sheet. He’d shed his leather jacket so Stiles has a perfect view of Derek’s tapered torso as the setting sun’s light shines through his white dress shirt. Derek turns sharply and Sties whips his head in the opposite direction. _Shit. Fuck. Shit._ Derek’s jade eyes narrow and he pushes past Stiles into the kitchen. Stiles sits on the bed and rolls his eyes into his head as he lets himself fall backward into the pillows.  
                Derek’s gruff voice comes from the kitchen. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning to bring you to your lecture. Eight. Be ready.” He walks out of the kitchen drying his hands on his shirt. He grabs his leather jacket and tugs it over his shoulders. “Eight."  
                Stiles sits up. “And I’ll text you my schedule tonight."  
                Derek nods and heads out the door. “Call me if there’s an emergency. I’ll just be outside.” And he leaves.  
                Stiles falls back again and lets the image of Derek hanging up the makeshift curtains play behind his eyelids.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds out the hard way that he's the son of the President of the United States: a terrorist threatening to kill him. In order to ensure his safety, he's issued a bodyguard, Derek Hale of the Secret Service, who just happens to be tall, dark, and entirely too fucking handsome. But Derek's so professional...Stiles just hopes Derek keeps him alive long enough for them to have sex. Right after Stiles gets Derek to like him.

When they pull up to the campus, Derek rushes around to the passenger side of the car to open the door for Stiles. Stiles raises an eyebrow at Derek’s actions. He looks good, in a Henley and blue jeans that seem to hug his curves in all the right places. “Thanks, Derek.” _Gorgeous and a gentleman_ _…_

Derek follows Stiles to his morning lecture. They stop outside of the limestone building and Stiles clutches his History and Econ books to his chest. Derek crosses his muscular arms over his chest. “So, to review…”

“Okay, I think I have it. You’re a government researcher who’s shadowing me to collect data about…about…” Stiles pushes his glasses up. “ About teenagers that do boring shit with their lives and play lacrosse.”

“About organic efficiency models arising from dense clusters of pedestrian interactions.” Derek gripes. “We’ll work on it.”

“Right. I’m never going to remember all of that.” Stiles’s eyes glance around. “And you want me to use your real name?”

“Yes,” Derek tersely demands. “In my experience, pseudonyms often add another layer of unnecessary complexity.”

“Okay then.” Stiles turns to walk into the building and stops, turning back to Derek. “You coming?

Derek studies the building, taking note of all the exits and doors. “Yes. I will, Mr. Stilinski.”

He trails Stiles into the building and notes that it’s a fairly small liberal arts college, the inside having small classrooms, just like a high school. The halls are lined with students bustling to class and Stiles seems to know every one of them. He’s waving to the people he passes and most don’t give him the time of day normally but with Derek pressing his body firmly against his back in the crowded hall, Stiles is getting a bit of attention.  They enter a room on the right, the chalkboard headline reading _World War II and Japanese Internment_.

“Stiles!”

A girl with bright red hair rushes over and hands Stiles a notebook of papers. “Here’s everything you missed yesterday.” She smiles at Derek and cocks her head to the right. “Who’s your friend, Stiles?”

Derek’s eyes glare at Stiles. “He’s uh…” His mind goes blank. “He’s a, uh, transfer student. Derek Hale.” Stiles avoids Derek’s gaze. “Derek, meet Lydia.”

Derek shakes Lydia’s outstretched hand. “You’re Stiles’s girlfriend?”

“God, no!” Stiles looks equally as horrified as Lydia. “I don’t fall for guys that bat for the other team. I’m totally single, Derek. What are you, like 30?”

“25 actually.”

Lydia’s gaze inspects Derek’s build. _Keep your eyes in your head_ , Stiles thinks. “What do you bench?” she asks, nonchalantly. “120, 130?”

“160.” Derek isn’t breaking under Lydia’s scrutiny. He’s simply staring at Stiles with a fire in his eyes that can only be coming from the fact that Stiles forgot his lines and fucked up big time. He offers Derek a smile in return and grabs his wrist to pull him away from Lydia.

“Let’s sit, shall we?”

Derek takes the desk next to Stiles and starts to crack his knuckles. “Transfer student.”

“There’s no other way you’d fit in. You look like you’re like, 35.” Derek snaps his head toward Stiles, who throws his hands up in defense. “In the best way!”

Derek slumps down in his desk. “Whatever.”

 

After History, Stiles leads Derek out of the throng of kids and into the courtyard. “Well, let’s get some lunch. Do you want to eat together?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Of course. The cafeteria is an especially exposed area.”

“Right.” Stiles follows the crowd into The Caf. Derek leads them both to an empty table in the back corner of the room. _He probably thinks that this is the most secure spot._

“What do you want?”

Stiles peeks at Derek through thick frames as he lowers himself into a chair. “I can go with you.”

“I’ll take care of it. What do you want?”

“A hamburger, I guess. It’s the best thing on the menu. Today, at least.”

Derek nods and briskly walks away.

_I forgot to give him money for lunch. Fuck._

Derek returns no more than ten minutes later with two trays of food. He sets them both on the table as Stiles flips through his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Derek shakes his head. “Just enjoy it.”

“Thanks…” Stiles grabs a tray and the bottle of ketchup next to Derek’s forearm. He applies it to his curly fries, burger, and the side of his plate before handing it to Derek, who keeps shifting his eyes around the room. His eyes rest on the people staring at him as they pass.

“What’s wrong?”

Derek focuses back on Stiles. “Nothing. Just…I don’t suppose you think we look like a couple, do you?”

Stiles can’t help but chuckle at the way Derek’s eyebrows are contorted into an expression of genuine worry. “A couple, Derek?” He shoves curly fries in his face, his honey brown eyes watching Derek nervously squeeze ketchup onto his plate.

“I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

“Well,” Stiles manages to mumble through a mouthful of fries, “From now on we’ll tell people you’re my cousin…Miguel.”

“No,” Derek snaps back, “no pseudonyms. They add—”

“—another layer of unnecessary complexity, blah blah blah.” Stiles unscrews the cap to his water bottle. “I got it.” Another gaggle of girls walks by and giggles in Stiles’s general direction. “Do _you_ think we make a convincing couple, Derek?”

His bushy eyebrows shoot up and pore over the room again, as he’d been doing for the past fifteen minutes. “Right now? I suppose it’s possible.”

“Aw, really, Der?” Stiles feels his heart skip a beat at the thought of dating Derek.

The fantasy vanishes as Derek glares at Stiles. “People tend to jump to easy conclusions on a regular basis.” He stabs a curly fry with his fork and delicately places it in his mouth. “And I would prefer it if you didn’t call me by that name, Mr. Stilinski.”

 _Your fucking mouth._ Stiles tries hard to avoid staring. But Derek’s _mouth_ …so perfect for porn. He _definitely_ had to do porn back in the day. _Had to._ “Well, I guess you’re just used to working with high profile people.”

Derek squints his jade eyes at Stiles until the boy stops staring at him. “Most clients want to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“Makes sense. Probably makes it a huge shift going from that to a college cafeteria.” He eats another bundle of fries and his eyes train on Derek’s super curled curly fry that he’s considering stealing from right off of his tray.

“It’s certainly a different environment.” Derek pokes around at another fry and finally decides to eat it. His eyes travel up from the table and focus on Stiles’s lips. The way they move. They’re so pink and full and what Derek would give to bruise them a tender red.

“Derek. Dude, is there something on my face?”

“Oh, uh, no. I was listening to my radio. A call came in for the other agents.” Derek’s cheeks heat up.

Stiles’s left eye gives a twitch. “Well, as I was saying before, I’ve been meaning to tell you, it’s totally cool if you wanna call me Stiles. Or Biles. I’m Biles to Coach since he can’t read his own goddamn handwriting but if it makes me first line then I’ll take it.”

“Mr. Stilinski, I—”

“Derek, seriously. I’m not used to all the formalness. Call me Stiles. Mr. Stilinski is _apparently_ my father.”

Derek shakes his head disapprovingly. “I see, Mr. Stilin—Stiles. Just Stiles.”

“Just Stiles.” He watches as Derek misses his mouth as he speaks and hits his nose with a fry to leave a small dab of ketchup on the tip. He laughs and grabs a napkin from the dispenser in the center of the table. “We’ll work on that.” Derek snaps back as Stiles reaches forward to wipe the ketchup off of his nose. “Derek, come here. I don’t bite.”

Derek’s face goes back to the scrutinizing glare that Stiles is getting used to seeing.

Stiles quickly adds, “unless you want me to.”

And he _swears_ Derek blushed.

“It’s fine, Mr. Stilinski, I can get it myself.”

A group of girls in the corner giggle and turn away when Stiles glances in their direction. Stiles surrenders the napkin and sits back, watching Derek wipe his nose clean and check his phone.

“One class, lunch, then lacrosse, yes?”

“Yeah. We better head over to the field before Coach puts in Greenberg.”

Derek’s expression is skeptical. “Is that bad?”

“Dude, Coach _hates_ Greenberg.”

 

The locker rooms are deserted when Stiles and Derek arrive.

“Let me check the perimeter first.” Derek’s hand goes to his gun.

“Wait.” Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulder to stop him and Derek’s head spins around so fast, Stiles is surprised it doesn’t fly off his shoulders. Derek’s gaze shifts from Stiles, to his hand, back to Stiles. Stiles rips his hand away as if he’d just been scorched. “I’m taking my hand off.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch in annoyance before he steps into the locker room silently. Stiles definitely doesn’t check out his ass in the jeans he has on. Definitely doesn’t.

Derek’s eyes dart carefully around the locker room, constantly coming back to where Stiles is aimlessly zoning out in the doorway. He lurks around the corner when a sudden _crash_ has him spinning into a sink against the back wall. Derek draws his gun and faces the doors he came in and sees Stiles, standing inside the locker room his eyes trained on Derek with a pile of lacrosse sticks at his feet.

“Mr. Stilinski!” Derek lowers his gun and stalks forward. “I didn’t give you the all clear.”

Stiles grimaces. “Really…? Because I’m pretty sure I heard you say—“

“I haven’t said anything.” Derek pauses before he draws his gun again and pushes Stiles behind his body. “Did you hear something? Is someone else in here? What did they say to you?”

Stiles facepalms. “No, Derek…I…” He sighs. “Practice started ten minutes ago. I need to change and we need to head out to the field.”

Derek stops. “I’ll stand in the hall.”

“You’re not going to get in uniform? I’m sure Coach could use a few more players.”

“I’ll stand in the hall.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and points to the back of the locker room. “There’s another entrance back there.”

Derek resigns and walks into the locker room to sit on the bench next to the locker that reads _STILINSKI_. He watches Stiles’s nimble fingers open the lock and dig out his shoulder pads, helmet, jersey, gloves, cleats, kneepads, and under armor. He pulls his glasses off and holds them out to Derek.

“Will you please hold these? They get caught on my clothes whenever I change.”

Derek takes them and hooks them onto the pocket on his Henley. By the time he looks back up, Stiles is stripped to his boxer briefs, pulling his under armor up over his knees. Derek is _not_ staring. He is _not_ admiring at the gentle slope of Stiles’s perfectly rounded ass or the way it leads to the dimples on his lower back, just above the waistband of his skivvies.  He isn’t watching the tensing and untensing of Stiles’s back and shoulders as he pulls his shoulder pads over his head, and he _for sure_ doesn’t notice the lean, toned definition of his pale abdomen or the trail of hair that disappears below his shorts. Stiles turns toward Derek for a moment and Derek quickly averts his eyes. Body guard idea, _horrible_ one for Derek. Awful.

“I know you were staring at it, Derek.”

Derek feels ice run through his veins. “What?”

“My stick. You were staring at it.” He looks up at Stiles, donned in his jersey, holding his lacrosse stick in a gloved hand. “It’s brand new for this season. I got a red one, for school colors.”

Derek nods and tries hard to keep his face from burning up. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks. Can you tighten this glove for me?” Stiles reaches out his right arm and Derek doesn’t look at him, just keeps his eyes down and adjusts the glove in fear of the blush creeping up his neck reaching his cheeks. Stiles smiles and nudges Derek’s foot with his cleat. “Let’s go.”

 

They get out onto the field where the team’s running suicides. They look miserable.

“Bilinski!”

Stiles cringes and looks at Derek, who’s got his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Mr. Stilinski—“

“Call me Biles or I swear to _God,_ I’ll kill you.”

Derek offers the glare again. Another tick on Stiles’s mental glare tally chart. “But—“

“Biles.”

Coach approaches Stiles and grabs his lacrosse stick out of his hand. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago! Get your ass on the field, let’s go!” Before Stiles takes off, Coach’s hand holds the center of Stiles’s chest. “Who’s this? You look way too friggin’ old to be here. What are you, like 35?”

Stiles shoots Derek a look. _Told you._ “Uh, Coach? People of any age can come to college.”

“Don’t sass me, Stilinski, or I’ll laugh when they rip your ass off and hand it to you in the scrimmage today. Who’s the new guy?”

Derek gives a tight-lipped smile and has his right hand hovering over the concealed weapon inside the holster in his waistband. Stiles grips Derek’s shoulder. “Coach, meet Derek. He’s a transfer student from NYU.”

Coach puts his hands on his hips and looks Derek up and down, his hair spiked and crazy, per usual. “I don’t suppose you have any lacrosse experience, do ya, Derek? You’ve got the stature for it, and good shoulders.”

“I’m afraid I’m a total neophyte.” Derek’s eyes scan the field and bleachers. “With your permission, I’d like to observe the meeting and take notes.”

“About lacrosse? What kind of boring shit are you majoring in?”

“Double major. Research Methodology and Quantitative Method and Sociology and Anthropology.”

“So math.”

“Social sciences.”

“Whatever. Can you play sports?”

Derek glances over at the players shooting goals. “I played hockey in high school.”

Coach smiles. “It’s just like hockey on grass, you’ll be great.” He turns. “Stilinski! Get him a padded up!” And he walks away.

Derek gazes at Stiles. “Hockey on grass would be field hockey.”

“That’s why he’s the Econ 1 teacher and not something requiring more knowledge.”

They head back to the locker rooms, Derek leading, just in case something’s out of place since they’d been there. Stiles tracks slowly behind him just to get a great view of Derek. He walks with a purpose and he’s got a great set of legs on him, the kind that fill out any pair of pants perfectly. Stiles wonders how they’d look in khakis. Stiles follows Derek into the locker room and rummages around the equipment room. He comes out with pads and a uniform. “What size shoe are you?”

“Eleven.”

Stiles ducks back into the room and tosses a pair of cleats towards Derek. He heads back to his locker where Derek is leaning and shoves the pads and jersey into his hands. “I have some more under armor in my locker.”

Derek’s face sours. Stiles’s under armor? He’s _really_ going to wear some under guard that’s been on Stiles’s sweaty ass? “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“With the way these guys chuck balls, _you’re wearing it._ ” He gets his locker open and grabs the under armor. Derek takes it from Stiles’s outstretched hand and sets it on top of the pads. He reaches into his waistband and hands Stiles the gun.

“You hold it in front of you at the ground to be ready in case anyone dangerous comes in. Got it?”

Stiles gingerly accepts the gun and nods. He stands by the doors, listening to Derek change behind him, his eyes fixed on the double doors in front of him.

Derek toes off his boots and shucks off his Henley and jeans holding up the tiny under armor. “Hey, uh…you’re sure these will fit? They look kind of tiny.”

Stiles turns briefly. “Yeah, they stretch pre—” He lets his mouth fall open because, _Derek_. He’s scowling at the padding but, _Jesus,_ everything—even the scowl Stiles swears he hates—is _beautiful._ His body tapers down to his legs, his chest is smooth and sculpted, and his arms, god, his _arms_. They’re flexing and unflexing as Derek tugs the padding up over his calves and then up over his thighs and his torso ripples with each breath he takes and Stiles _can’t_ _stop_ _staring_. He vaguely hears Derek talking but he’s too caught up in how Derek’s let his lacrosse shorts sit so far down on his hips and how pornographic his back muscles look when he’s lacing up his shoulder pads. It’s a good thing he’s got a couple layers of spandex strapping his dick down because _hello Derek._

“Are you going to answer me?”

“What?” Stiles can feel the blush creeping up his face.

“I asked for a helmet.”

Stiles nods an hands the gun back to Derek before he goes to grab one out of the equipment room before he tackles Derek. When he comes out, Derek’s tying his cleats and pulling his gloves on. Stiles hands him a helmet and a lacrosse stick. “Ready, okay, awesome, let’s go.”

Derek grabs Stiles’s wrist. “Wait one moment. I have to put my gun in the holster. Hold this.” Stiles takes the stick and watches Derek slide his shorts up and tuck the handgun away into the holster on his thigh. He takes the stick from Stiles, who’s looking at him with big eyes. “Let’s go.”

 

—

 

After practice, Derek leads Stiles out to the parking lot.

“Wait a minute.” Stiles drags Derek over to the bulletin board. “I have to see if General Mills approved my internship so I can get paid for the research I do this winter break.” His eyes scan the papers pinned behind the foggy glass. “Gotta keep up with my baby’s maintenance. She needs an oil change and some new wipers _badly._ ” Derek spots the posting for the lacrosse team, dated back to the previous school year’s spring sports tryouts.

“I hope today wasn’t too boring for you,” Stiles says after a while.

Derek folds his arms and shakes his head, turning to offer a smile to Stiles. “Not at all, Mr. Stilinski. I appreciate having the opportunity to observe your day-to-day affairs like this.” He rubs the bruise on his forearm from a rogue lacrosse ball. “And maybe participating in a few.”

“Seriously?”

Derek nods. “Having a better sense of your typical routine will help me better identify any anomalies in the future.”

Stiles purses his lips and tugs on the straps of his backpack. “Alright.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was your original motivation for joining the lacrosse team?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t really remember. I did it in high school, so I guess it was my way of remembering where I came from.”

Derek looks to the bulletin board again. “I admire your attitude, Mr. Stilinski.” He gets a soft look in his eyes.

“You look like you want to say something else.”

“Just that, uh, your father used to participate in lacrosse in college, too. He said it helped him connect and work with others.”

Stiles admires Derek’s sharp profile. “You talk to my father a lot?”

“We have regular contact. I often protect him during public events.”

Derek tilts his head. “Did you hear that?”

“What is it?” Stiles feels his body stiffen, his eyes trained on Derek’s jade eyes.

“I think…” He grabs Stiles and yanks him into his arms, putting the him between the bulletin board and himself.

Stiles hears the loud crack of a gunshot before his ears start ringing. “Derek—”

“They sound a distance away. We need to get to the car now!”

Derek grips Stiles’s hand and pulls him to the Camaro in the back of the parking lot.

 

“Derek, what’s going on?” Stiles panics. Derek’s speeding and Stiles is pressed into the leather seat.

“This is Hale,” Derek’s got one hand on the radio and the other on the steering wheel. “We’ve got a situation with the first son. The principal’s safe, but the shooter remains at large.”

Stiles suddenly remembers to breathe. He looks down at his hands, blood rushing though his ears, heart pounding in his chest. They’re shaking. The veins running down his arms and his hands are prominent and his skin burns hot with adrenaline. Fear prickles at the back of his neck as they hit a red light. Derek glances in the rearview mirror.

“Suspicious vehicle on my six.” His foot jams on the accelerator and tears through the intersection just as the light turns green. “En route to the White House now. Hale, out.”

Derek turns to Stiles, face stoic. “Are you alright, Stiles?”

Stiles nods slowly. His eyes are wide with shock and fear and he can’t bring himself to look around. “I think so…”

Derek cuts a sharp turn and Stiles is thrown against the door, pitching to the side of his seat. “Hold on.” A strong arm reaches across Stiles’s chest and Derek’s hand grips Stiles’s right arm, pressing the boy back into the passenger seat. His arm is warm and firm and Stiles relaxes at the feel of Derek’s protective touch. As soon as the wheel straightens, Derek removes his arm and focuses on speeding down the street.

“Is someone following us?” Stiles whispers.

“I believe so, although we may have lost them. We’ll be at the White House soon.”

Stiles admires the scenery out the window, gazing at the greenery around museums and buildings. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head _thump_ against the headrest until a quick stop jolts him upright.

“Quickly. They’re waiting for us.”

Derek runs around the car and opens the door for Stiles, taking his hand and leading him into a maze of hallways. Stiles feels his chest clenching and has to stop and catch his breath when they enter an office where all of the other agents are seated around a conference table, along with two unfamiliar faces.

“Mr. Stilinski, this is Danny Mahealani from the Metropolitan Police Department.”

The man offers a warm smile and an outstretched hand. His tanned skin proves he’s as Hawaiian as his name suggests and highlights the adorable dimples that compliment his brilliant smile. “So you’re the first son? Wow, it’s a real honor!” Stiles returns the smile and accepts the handshake.

“And this,” Derek continues, gesturing to a young woman, “is Ms. Allison Argent, from the Bureau of Counterterrorism.”

She takes in Stiles’s shaky appearance. “I’m glad to see that you and Derek both made it out okay.”

Stiles eyes her. _I’m not sure I like the way she’s examining me. I feel like I’m being analyzed._ He lets Derek guide him to a chair at the table and takes a seat beside him, hands wringing together on the table. Why does Stiles make him so _nervous_? Well, besides the fact that he’s risking his life as well as the rest of his family’s lives—he doesn’t have much family left anyway—guarding Stiles.

The inclination toward Stiles to protect was unexplainable. The first time Derek had seen the boy, he’d been arguing with his grandparents about forgetting his pillow when he moved for college, and the unrelenting itch that tugged at the center of his chest was uncomfortable and prickly and Derek only knew getting closer to Stiles would worsen it, and it has, gone from a dull ache to a sharp stinging, harder to ignore. He knew it would be brutal, having to sit by and act like his normal self, daunting, shadowy, stoic. It’s how you act when almost your entire family was burned to death and you’re on your own at 15. But guarding him? Close proximity, little nuisances, and the constant near-death experience that drove them together in the first place makes Derek slowly unravel at the seams as it’s been doing all day. Guarding from afar for so long, 6 years, slowly falling for a boy so unattainable yet so close is so consuming to the point where Derek’s body is fervid with obsession.

But he’s professional. Derek is a professional. Stiles is his job. The insatiable fascination doesn’t exist around Stiles because Derek is doing his _job._ But he gets so nervous when that inner longing bubbles up and blisters the surface of his skin, and the stinging comes back.

“I can’t fathom a reason as to why they’d try again so soon.”

“They’re a bunch of cowards,” Scott asserts. “I can’t wait until we bring them in.”

Isaac flips through pages on a notepad in front of him. “We’ve already sent a team out to the campus. I doubt they’ll find much now, but maybe we’ll luck out.”

“Good work,” Derek praises, looking toward Jackson, who catches the acknowledgement.

“Allison and I were just going over some of the information we’ve collected on this terrorist group.” His eyes skim over the file splayed open in front of him on the mahogany conference table. “They’re a small band of extremists under a man called The Benefactor.”

“The Benefactor?” Derek glances down at his hands. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Well, we actually have one of The Benefactor’s top assassin behind bars. A piece of work that goes by The Mute. Been locked up for a few years now.”

“I see,” Derek croaks, avoiding Stiles’s brown orbs. “So the remainder of the group has decided to fixate on Mr. Stilinski after learning his identity.” Derek thinks for a minute. They have The Mute, but they don’t have The Benefactor. Are they coming for The Mute? Was that the reason they were being followed? “But what’s the connection?”

“Still working on it, sir,” Jackson verifies.

“And the threats from yesterday?”

“Looks like they were trying to keep us distracted.”

Derek glances to his right and finally takes in Stiles’s whole appearance. He’s sickly pale, body cold and clammy. His head’s lolling. He’s shaking slightly in his chair and his eyes are glassy. He blinks and even though he’s seated, they world starts to spin.

“Stiles!”

“It’s…I’m…”

“Someone grab him some water.”

“On it.” Danny rushes out of the room.

“Forgive me,” Derek whispers low under his breath. “We should have tended to you before getting caught up in this."

“I understand,” Stiles gently murmurs from where his head is trying to loll on Derek’s right shoulder.

Danny comes back and hands Stiles a plastic cup. “Thanks, Danny.”

The water is cool and soothing on Stiles’s parched throat. Derek doesn’t notice it flow down Stiles’s throat. He doesn’t see the droplet that missed his mouth and is sliding down Stiles’s jugular. He doesn’t watch the vein popping out on Stiles’s neck. He definitely doesn’t.

“I, uh,” Derek swallows thickly. “I think it would be best for you to get some rest. We’ve prepared a secure room for you to stay in.”

“I can take him, Derek,” Danny offers.

Derek nods. “Thank you, Officer Mahealani.” His sharp jaw turns to Stiles. “I’ll check in on you after we finish up here.”

Stiles smiles. “Okay. I appreciate it, Derek.”

Danny ushers Stiles into the hallway, eyes glued to Derek the whole time. “Right this way!”


End file.
